from the hip

Title: from the hip
What: a short crossdressing spanking fic for Telesilla
Rating: NC17

this one's from the hip
sweet Jesus I should have warned you about me
it never got whipped
out of me….

Lloyd Cole and the Commotions 'Fron the Hip'

Rodney doesn't like to think too hard about what they do, because he's convinced it's not a good thing. But he tries not to let John know just how skeevy it makes him feel, because John — for some reason, John seems to need this.

Usually, Rodney assumes that a date will end in sex: nothing premeditated except for maybe taking a shower and clearing the power bar wrappers out of the bed. But sometimes — every seven point four weeks, on average — John sends him an e-mail asking a time.

22:00? John will ask, and Rodney zips back a gotcha and is in his quarters a half hour before that time, putting on eyeliner and lipstick, curling his lashes and feeling like a middle-aged fool for doing this. The first few times he didn't even have proper clothes; John made him wear his bathrobe.

He has decent things now, courtesy a shopping trip John took back on Earth (Rodney's worried the retail therapy took place after the burial of Sheppard's father: he's afraid to ask, he doesn't want to know). He has a pleated wool skirt in a very subtle blue plaid and a pair of matching low heels, and a tight low-cut top with built-in bra. He looks too much like his chain-smoking Aunt Ruby, he thinks, every time, and even Uncle Paulie (never the brightest bulb) finally had enough of Ruby's formidable censure and moved to a cabin in the Northwest Territories.

But seeing Rodney like this turns John on like nobody's business. He's always breathlessly hard as soon as Rodney's door shuts behind him, grimacing as he adjusts himself in his tatty old jeans.

"You look so good," John says, touching Rodney's hair, nuzzling kisses along his jaw, pressing his face into the tiny space of pseudo-cleavage. "Christ, Rodney, let me — "

And the thing is, Rodney would be perfectly happy to let him: he has, once or twice. John will take off the top and lick Rodney's nipples to points of ecstacy and then go to his knees, shove the skirt up, and swallow Rodney down. After, he'll curl up with Rodney and fall asleep, and the next day he'll say thank you, but he won't come.

If Rodney wants John to get off (and he has to assume that John wants to get off), he has to say No, and it breaks his heart how quickly John's hands fall, and John's eyes fall, and John's breathing goes raggedly out of control.

The first time John said he wanted Rodney to hit him, Rodney had been furious and actually had, a hard punch to the face that hurt like hell, left a spectacular bruise, and had John ripping his zipper open, desperate to get his hand around his cock. Freaking disturbing Rodney said after John got off, and John's expression blanked. How are we going to work this? Rodney went on, and John had struggled with the need to walk right out of the room and Rodney's life and the need to overcome his own terror and come up with something sustainable.

Ah, compromise, Rodney thinks, and shoos John back to the bed. John drops his jeans and boxers and settles on the bed, sitting on his heels, facing the headboard. Rodney can touch him now, returning the gentle explorations, pulling off John's shirt and pulling John's bare chest against his own as they kiss. Lipstick's expensive, but he loves seeing John's mouth smeared red, lips parted as he gasps for breath.

Rodney wraps one hand around the back of John's neck and shoves down, pushing until John's forehead hits his arms, crossed on the mattress, and all the lines of John's body converge at his ass. He keeps his hand on John's neck for the first few hard hits he gives to his ass: John wants this, but his body always tries to arch away anyway. When Rodney thinks John's subdued himself, he steps back, gets into a better position, and sets to work. He varies pacing and force, never letting John anticipate what's coming, and loves every little broken gasp John wrenches out.

He refuses to hit John with anything but his hands, and he tries not to leave bruises for others to see. He has his standards, he thinks a little hysterically, more turned on by this thank he thinks he ought to be. When John's at the point where he's trying to talk but he can't, when he sounds like a child struggling to choke down sobs, Rodney stops, shakes out his stinging hands, grabs John's hair by the handfuls and hauls him up. John latches onto Rodney's skirt, pressing his face against Rodney's thigh, and Rodney always, always wants to hold him and make this gentle. But that's not what John wants.

So Rodney brings his arm back and slaps John away from him, the blow to his cheek making John's head snap to the side, and John makes another terrible noise as Rodney pushes him down on the bed. Rodney grabs the lube, flips his skirt up, spreads John's hot bruised ass, and shoves right in. The language that John's capable of is disjointed, desperate, inhuman; he comes almost right away, and Rodney fucks him through the orgasm, and fucks him until John's body has probably burned through pain-as-pleasure and is now at the stage of pain-is-pain. It always takes Rodney a little longer to come on these days: it's a different kind of turn-on, and his orgasm is hard and selfish.

John's the one who holds him when Rodney's done and spent, curling around him and settling in to sleep. In the morning, John will kiss him and thank him, but what Rodney always remembers (best and worst) is the way that John will wake: always and ever clutching the fabric of the skirt to him like lifeline.

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